ilige tonight, while the luck's with me. . . it can't fail me now! What luck. . . what staggering colossal luck. . . in another hour the jewels. . . no, no. . . I mustn't think of them yet."
"Brethren of the Black Camel!"
The strange sibilant twittering of many voices ceased abruptly, as brother 901 mounted a dozen steps to a dais at the east end of the great hall, and stood outlined against a heavy saffron-hued brocade curtain.
"Brethren of the Black Camel!" Gis-sing's voice was audible, even in its disguise, from end to end of the room. "I claim a boon and a privilege at your hands."
"Speak, brother!" voices answered from every direction.
"Tonight in this place hath my face been blackened, and the greatest insult that one man can offer to another have I suffered. Only death can wipe out the memory of my shame."
"Speak further," commanded shrill voices.
"I overheard talk between two of the brethren here tonight, as I sat in the deep shadow behind a pillar. One brother boasted to another that he is my wife's lover, and he cast mud and filth on my name for an old half-witted fool, not able to guard his own treasure."
One of the brethren, an exceptionally tall man, stood up and hissed:
"Great wrong has been done thee. What boon dost thou crave at our hands?"
"The privilege of the Hunt!"
A babel broke out at these words. Rarely indeed was this deadly privilege demanded, and the thought of the grim spectacle they were to witness roused the primitive emotions of the Arabs to feverheat.
The tall brother spoke again:
"It is thy right, brother 901. Hast thou well considered the penalty of thy failure—should thy aim be untrue?"
Gissing's inflamed imagination was incapable of dealing with failure or penalty, and he answered:
"I can not fail."
"Speak then, brother 901. Who is he thou wilt hunt in the darkness. . . who shall flee before thy wrath in the shadows of the night?"
"He who hath brought shame and dishonor on my house is number—27!"
"Brother 27—27—27!"
The cry went hissing from mouth to mouth, all the grotesque camel-heads turning and bobbing furiously, as each brother sought to identify the owner of the fatal number.
Then a wide lane opened to disclose number 27 standing in a little space apart, very still and quiet and ominous. Eager hands seized him, jostled him, pushed him until he was standing on the platform opposite his accuser.
Brother 27 was indeed cornered! Only a genius or a madman could have conceived such a plaft of checkmating him. As one of the brethren, even Buzak could not refuse the challenge of the Hunt, without breaking a most sacred and binding vow. To break his vows was to lose face irrevocably before the brethren, to lose prestige, and power, and ultimately leadership; and that also meant the end of him as ruler of El Zoonda, for the Black Camels were the power behind his throne and they alone kept the cruel inhuman chief safe in his own city.
The Hunt must proceed—and Buzak must creep like a jungle thing at the mercy of the Hunter, unless chance delivered him from his implacable foe.
Gissing laughed in his newly grown beard as he calmly stared at the black figure confronting him.
